<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>the best day with you by goldenraeofsun</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26631658">the best day with you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenraeofsun/pseuds/goldenraeofsun'>goldenraeofsun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the story of us [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Claire Novak Friendship, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff, Gen, Minor Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sassy Claire Novak, Teacher Castiel (Supernatural), Teacher Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:40:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26631658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenraeofsun/pseuds/goldenraeofsun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Goddammit!” Dean howls as his golf ball stops just short of the hole. Parents chaperoning a group of five young kids over at Hole 10 glare daggers at him. </p><p>Claire leans on her putter, smirking. “Sucks to suck, old man.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Dean grumbles. He concentrates on his next shot because God help him if he messes up with his ball barely half a foot away from the hole. Mid-swing, one of the kids lets out a shriek, and Dean’s ball skips off in the completely wrong direction.</p><p>Claire doubles over laughing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the story of us [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>345</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the best day with you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean taps Claire on the shoulder. “You got plans for this weekend?”</p><p>With narrowed eyes full of suspicion, she grabs the remote and mutes Dr. Sexy playing in the background. “Why?”</p><p>“Because.”</p><p>“Because <em>why?”</em></p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. This is why he became a teacher. To help teenagers. Not to strangle them for sassing him to his face. Sure, Claire might be a sophomore in college now, and she’s not really a teenager anymore, but Dean’s never going to see her as anything but an angsty junior in high school. Especially if she keeps up the this attitude. Dean says, as evenly as he can, “Because I want to do something with you.”</p><p>Claire grimaces. “Don’t you have other boring old man friends to do things with? Like, for instance, <em>your boyfriend?”</em></p>
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>“No,” Dean says. “Cas is going to visit Gabriel in LA this week.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And you chose to stay behind with me instead?” Claire says, her eyebrows rising to her hairline.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Are you dying?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What?” Dean gapes. “No!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire squints at him. “Are you hoping I can score drugs for you?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean sighs loudly. “I can get my own drugs, thanks. It’s one of the perks of being a real adult.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you need money?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If I did,” Dean starts incredulously, “why would I ask a broke college student?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t know,” Claire says with a shrug. “Dementia? That kicks in about now for you, right?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean’s mouth falls open. “I’m barely thirty-four!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire shrugs. “Alzheimers?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That’s a kind of dementia,” Dean tells her flatly. He runs a hand down his face. “Look, are you free or not, kid?”</p>
  <p>Dean is pretty sure she doesn’t have any plans, since she’s been almost religiously camped out on their couch for the past two weeks straight. She's abandoned her spot only to go to the bathroom, eat meals, and, on one memorable occasion, visit her parents for Sunday dinner. The living room is her space now - which, fine with Dean, he’s been doing his summer school grading at the kitchen table. Along with her computer, Claire’s got the coding handbook Charlie Frankenstien-ed for her out of a bunch of different documents, probably all downloaded and printed illegally. On the television, she cycles through daytime soaps and CW evening dramas.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire grins. “On Saturday or something? Yeah.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He rolls his eyes. “Was that so hard?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, but it was fun.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Anyone ever tell you you’re a handful?” Dean says as he turns to head back into the kitchen. Lunch wasn’t going to make itself, and Cas was due back any minute from his errands.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Just my parents, every day from age thirteen to eighteen,” Claire says casually as she reaches for the remote to resume Dr. Sexy.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean freezes. “Hey,” he starts, not really sure where he’s going with this.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What?” Claire snaps as if annoyed, but her face is guarded. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Your parents were asshats, you know that?” Dean says. “They shouldn’t have done that to you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, well, you know what they say about family,” Claire mutters as she turns up Dr. Sexy.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In the middle of her junior year of high school, Claire moved in with Cas for about six months.</p>
  <p>Early in the year, she had an explosive argument with her parents about transferring from their preferred private school to Edlund High. She also came out to them.</p>
  <p>Dean has the sneaking suspicion Claire doesn’t think she had it <em>that bad</em>. Her parents didn’t hit her. They didn’t kick her out. They didn’t even stop giving her her allowance.  But they didn’t talk to her for days on end. They ignored her until she needed something from them, or the other way around. By Christmas, Claire had had enough. She left.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Back then, Dean told Claire her parents were in the wrong as many times as she would let him - which wasn’t many.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Cas took the lead with her, instead. She was his family. He found her a therapist and encouraged her to make friends at Edlund. Dean didn’t really feel like it was his place. She was Cas’s niece, and Dean was the guy who stayed over a couple times a week when she was crashing there too. And then he became her teacher when the transfer to Edlund became official. Still, she wouldn’t consider him <em>family.</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“My uncle always said, ‘family don’t end in blood,’” Dean tells her seriously.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire slumps back on the couch. “Right,” she says dully.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean takes a step back and swallows down his next words. He’s not about to give a heartfelt lecture on family and healthy boundaries to someone who’s going to grumble and groan through it. It'll just go in one ear and out the other; he can read the next few minutes all over her face. Instead, he jerks his head towards the kitchen. “I’ll get started on-”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire interrupts, “But that’s not grammatically correct. Aren’t you an English teacher? Who gave you a license to teach?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean snorts. “Just think about it, will you?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Uh huh,” Claire waves him off. “If you’re going to the kitchen, can you make me a sandwich?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. Cas finished off the strawberry jelly while he was grading essays last night, so you’re gonna have to settle for grape.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire makes a face but nods. Dean’s almost at the kitchen door when she asks, “Your uncle, was he really your uncle?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean shakes his head. “Not by blood. He was a good friend of my dad’s. But he was as good as family - better than, sometimes.” He swallows. Bobby’s been gone two years now. Dean had thought the grief when his dad passed was bad, but it was a whole other beast with Bobby.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire squints at him, looking so much like Cas Dean can’t help the warm feeling in his chest. “This is your show, right?” she asks out of the blue, gesturing to the television.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean blinks. “Yeah?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And that’s how Cas finds them ten minutes later, eating PB&amp;Js on the couch, watching Dr. Sexy - with Claire skewering every characterization and costume choice, and Dean defending Dr. Sexy’s cowboy boots with his life.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Minigolf, really?” Claire asks as they pull into the parking lot on a bright Saturday afternoon. The early-summer temperatures are already high enough to make Dean sweat in the Impala, and Claire’s shorts could double as bikini bottoms, they’re so small.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She adds, “You realize I have a fake ID and we could probably go to a bar or something.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“One,” Dean says as he slams the car door shut, “minigolf is a classic American pastime. Much better for your liver than drinking. And B, don’t ever tell Cas about that fake.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> Claire clambers out of the car. “I’m not an idiot.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Just making sure,” Dean says airily as he starts walking. He holds out his hand as she jobs to catch up to him. “Lemme see it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Why?” she asks suspiciously as she digs for her wallet in her purse and fishes the ID out.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Nice job,” Dean says as he holds it up to the sunlight shining overhead. “Ash?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire stops short, surprised. “What?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Did Ash do this one?” Dean asks. “Come on,” he tells her as he nudges her shoulder to keep her moving out of the middle of the parking lot. “Nobody else does ‘em this good.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How do you know that?” Claire demands.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean laughs. “I told you I can get my own drugs.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Ash deals too?” Claire asks, looking hopeful.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean leans over to ruffle her hair. “His dope is a little out of your price range, squirt.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey!” Claire squawks as she tries to smooth everything back into place. “And nobody calls it ‘dope’ any more, you doof.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean grins. “Yeah, I know.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They enter the main building and get in line to rent the putters. It smells strongly of sunblock and worn down parental patience. A few parents wait ahead of them, all older than Dean with kids younger than Claire. A group of high schoolers are inspecting a row of putters on display on the far wall. Through the windows to the back, Dean can see a splendid display of mostly-intact astroturf and course obstacles coated in sun-faded paint.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The guy behind the counter is wearing an obnoxiously bright shirt and smile. “Hiya,” he says cheerily as they step up to the counter, “I’m Sully, welcome!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Two adults please,” Claire says quickly, like she knows Dean was going to ask for a kid’s ticket to mess with her.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You got it,” Sully says as he bends down to grab two putters. “The bathrooms are by Hole 7, and if you want to grab lunch across the way at Zanna’s Diner, show them your receipt and you’ll get 15% off.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean steps forward with his wallet. “Do you know if they have pie?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sully smiles wider, showing even more teeth, which Dean didn’t think was possible. “You bet! The best darn cherry pie I’ve ever tasted.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Awesome,” he says. “Thanks, man.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thank you!” Sully says as he rings them up. “And good luck on the course!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean is uncomfortably sweaty by Hole 2, and Claire piles her hair on top of her head in a messy bun to cool off her neck halfway through Hole 4.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Swing batter, batter, <em>swing!” </em>Dean shouts from right behind her as she hits the ball at Hole 6.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire glares at him as her ball knocks against the windmill blade and skips off to the side. “That’s for baseball, idiot.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“But you still missed,” Dean points out as he sidles up to tee. “So does it really matter? Hey!” She kicks him in the ankle as he strikes at the ball. “You <em>cheater,” </em>he gasps dramatically.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So what?” Claire asks, putter swinging ominously at her side, “Are you gonna tell on me?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean frowns. “No, but I won't buy you any pie when this is all over.” He keeps his eyes peeled for an opportunity to mess with her as she takes another stab at the windmill.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fine with me. I like cake better.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean raises his head to gape at her. “Seriously?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire throws him a funny look. “Does it matter?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean’s mouth works furiously. “You ate the last slice of pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving two years ago.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire’s eyebrows climb to her hairline as she leans against the windmill and watches him take another stab at it. “You remember that?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean hardly watches where his ball goes. “Of course I do.”</p>
  <p>Jimmy and Amelia had elected to have Thanksgiving at Cas’s mother’s place. Cas, whose frosty relationship with his mother wasn’t helped by her dismissive attitude towards Claire, hosted a separate Thanksgiving at the (then) new house he shared with Dean. Sam and Jess flew in from California, and Claire was, of course, invited too. They were having a fucking blast, until Claire stole the last slice of pie right out from under Dean’s nose.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire snickers under her breath. “You’re so weird.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean glares. “I called dibs.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about, McMurphy,” Claire says, the liar. She crouches to get a better look at the windmill. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean tries to suppress his smile. “Was that a <em>One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest </em>reference?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire rolls her eyes. “I paid attention in your class, you know. Even if you gave me an A-minus.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean grins. “But you got a 5 on the AP Exam.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire does a little jig as her ball falls into the hole. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What the <em>fuck?”</em> Dean howls as his ball stops just short of Hole 9. Parents chaperoning a group of five kids at Hole 10 glare daggers at him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire leans on her putter, smirking. “Sucks to suck, old man.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey!” Dean glowers as she sinks a hole in one. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What’s that?” Claire holds her putter up in victory. “Did you see that? Did that go in the hole? I wasn’t watching. <em>Did the ball go in the hole?”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Shut up, kid,” Dean grumbles. “It wasn’t funny the first time.” He concentrates on his next shot. God help him if he fucks up with his ball barely half a foot from the hole.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>One of the toddlers at Hole 10 lets out an ear-splitting shriek, and Dean’s ball shoots off in the direction of Hole 13.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire doubles over laughing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles as he sidesteps her to go fetch it, “Like you would’ve done any better.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I just did. Or did you miss my hole in one?” Claire says from right behind him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m hungry,” Dean declares.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay…?” Claire squints at him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean nods to a hotdog stand by Hole 14. “Whaddya say to a dog?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Mystery meat at a roadside attraction that hasn’t been renovated since ‘97? Sign me up,” Claire says sarcastically.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean claps her on the back, just a shade too hard. “That’s the spirit.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She stumbles but doesn’t fall - exactly Dean’s plan - and glares at him. “If I get E. coli, it’s all your fault.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Once hotdogs are in hand, they sit and eat on a worn bench that’s more chipped paint than bench, facing a dinky little fountain. A few pennies glint dully from at bottom, almost obscured by the bright midday sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So,” Claire says after she takes her first bite. “You wanna tell me what this is all about?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This whole distant dad trying to reconnect with his kid routine,” Claire says.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I - I’m not your dad,” Dean stutters, his face heating.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Duh. Dad was more of Church retreat guy.” She leans back on the bench, stretching out her legs, and tilts her face up to catch more sun. “I would’ve had a better time if there was no singing and 100% more hitting things.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean asks haltingly, “So you don’t think this is weird?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What, hanging out with you?” Claire asks, her smile guileless. “I heard elder enrichment is important to prevent cognitive decline, so I’m just doing my duty.” She laughs at his disappointed frown. “Relax. This has been… great.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Really?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire finishes off her hotdog and balls up the aluminum foil wrapper. “Yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean gets up to put their trash in the garbage. He manages to stow his broad smile before he gets back.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hole in one!” Dean crows at Hole 15.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you want a gold star?” Claire snarks as she tees up.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Shut up.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire swings, and they both watch as her ball deftly navigates around the bumps and turns to sink neatly into the hole.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean’s smile falls off his face as Claire jumps around in victory. “Lucky shot,” he tells her as they troop to Hole 16.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Uh huh,” Claire says. “And that makes, what seven lucky shots for me? And how many holes in one have you had?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At the next hole, they have to wait for the large family ahead of them to finish up.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh my god,” Claire mutters as one of the parents demonstrates how to properly swing the putter for the youngest child, “it’s minigolf. Not the Olympics.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know, right?” Dean says in an undertone. “Who cares how she hits the ball? If she wants to bowl it down the course, let her.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Seriously, who gives a fuck?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I bet she’s gonna scream before they’re done with the lesson.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Water works in 5… 4… 3…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They wait with bated breath as, sure enough, the child sits down in the middle of the course and wails. She refuses to even touch the putter.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How did you know that was gonna happen?” Claire asks as the family moves on. She eyes him critically. “High schoolers aren’t the tantrum type.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Shows what you know,” Dean snorts. No matter the point of spending today with Claire, he wasn’t about to tell her how he became an expert in toddler care. Christ, he can still remember the sticky feeling of Sammy’s vomit all over his front when he cried so hard he puked. Dean’s crime? Telling Sammy his favorite blanket needed to be washed. Dean hadn’t even taken it <em>away</em> yet. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean tells Claire instead, “I’ve seen more meltdowns over bad essay grades than I’d like. And it’s not like I can say, <em>well, you should have read the damn book, Ava.”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You wouldn’t say something like that,” Claire says as she bends down to set up her ball.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Of course not,” Dean exhales a beleaguered sigh, “that makes it worse.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire straightens. “No, I’m saying, you would probably ask her why she didn’t have the time to read the book; if she’s tried the audiobook instead; if you should talk to Mr. Lafitte for her since she spent too long on Algebra and didn’t get to your homework.” She shrugs, meeting his eyes briefly. “You would do something like that.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean blinks because she’s got him exactly right. He’s a firm believer that there’s no such thing as a lazy student. There are unmotivated students; there are students with undiagnosed ADHD or dyslexia; and there are anxious and/or depressed students. Hell, there are students with side-jobs, bills to pay, and little brothers to look after.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah,” he agrees, discomfited. Claire was his student during her senoir year of high school, but her presence in class was kind of eclipsed by her rocky home life. By then, she was back with her parents, but meeting up with Cas regularly to vent and strategize the rest of her school year. In Dean's class, she faded into the background - Kaia’s blonde shadow. Cas’s stories provided Dean with more insight than any discussion on <em>The Plot Against America </em>ever did.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“All the seniors loved you,” Claire says. “Max Banes would’ve slept with you if he could.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean hits his ball right into the mini sand pit. <em>“What?”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire smirks. “You didn’t know?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Uncle Cas was right, you are oblivious,” Claire says as she whacks her ball straight into the hole.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey,” Dean says, but the protest is weak. “Cas wasn’t much better.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire grins. “No one’s arguing that.” She waits until Dean’s mid-swing to say, “Max would’ve slept with Uncle Cas too - which, gross.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Dammit, Claire!”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay,” Claire says as they walk away from Hole 18. “I’m gonna need to sit in AC for at least forty-five minutes.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They’ve been out in the sun for nearly two hours now. Dean pulls his damp shirt away from his stomach with a grimace. “You down for pie?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sure,” Claire says gratefully as they leave minigolf behind them. He has the feeling she would've said yes to eating her putter if it meant a chance to cool down.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In the diner, the air conditioning hits them like a bucket of cold water to the face. Claire throws herself into the first both they see as Dean troops off to relieve himself in the bathroom. He checks his phone - one grumpy text from Cas about Gabriel’s inappropriate choice of swimwear for a hotel pool - and exits with a smile on his face.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Back at the booth, Claire is twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger, smiling coyly up at the waitress from beneath lowered lashes. But Claire's inviting expression flips off like a switch as Dean drops down into the opposite seat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The waitress’ own sunny smile takes on a distinctly plastic sheen at his arrival. “Hello!” she chirps as Dean picks up the menu. “Is there anything I can get you besides water?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Can I get a coke?” Dean asks the waitress - Maggie, according to her nametag. She’s tall, probably taller than Claire, and dark-haired. She seems around Claire's own age, so Dean would bet she’s only working here as a summer job.</p>
  <p>Claire is still glaring daggers at him, so Dean asks, partly to be a dick, “And what’re you getting, Claire?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Water,” she says through gritted teeth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“A coke and a water, please,” Dean says cheerfully. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She bobs a nod and casts a lingering look at Claire. “I’ll be right back to take your order.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire kicks him under the table as she disappears into the kitchen. “You couldn’t have waited another five minutes?” she hisses “I was just about to get her number.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean grins. “My bad.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Now she thinks I’m here with my dad or something.” Claire crosses her arms across her chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean rolls his eyes. “You call me an old man, but I’m, what, twelve years older than you? We’re more likely to be on a date.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire’s flat-out horrified face is enough to make Dean’s week. He’s still laughing as Maggie makes a return, one water and one Coca Cola in tow. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So what can I get you both?” Maggie asks as she reaches for her pad and pen.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“One slice of cherry pie, thanks,” Dean says brightly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Nothing for me,” Claire mumbles.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Maggie looks from Claire to Dean and back again. “One cherry pie,” she confirms slowly. “Should I bring out two forks?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Over Dean’s fresh bout of laughter, Claire says loudly, <em>“We’re not together!”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Maggie blinks a few times, and Dean can’t tell if she’s more shocked by his reaction or Claire’s. “Okay.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As she leaves, Claire buries her head in her hands. Her voice is muffled by her hands and hair, but Dean can make out, “This is all your fault.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How?” Dean asks as he sucks on his straw. “It’s not <em>my</em> fault if you’ve got no game, kid.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire slumps onto the table. “I used to.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Stalking doesn't count as ‘game’ or else Cas and me would have gotten together way before we did,” Dean says sagely.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Still face-down on the table, Claire flips him the bird.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Have you spoken to Kaia lately?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire doesn’t move for a long moment. When she finally raises her head, her expression is pinched. “Not since Spring Break last year. She was doing good, I guess.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Awkwardly, Dean says, “It’s okay if you’re still hung up on her.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire waves his assurances away. “It’s been a whole fucking year."</p>
  <p>Dean sighs. “These things can take time. You were with her while a lot was going on in your life, and she was there for you through all of it. Just ’cause you're young doesn’t mean it meant less. But if you want to move on, sometimes you don’t have to wait until you’re 100% ready.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thanks, Senpai.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Maggie approaches carrying a large slice of cherry pie.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Here you go,” Maggie says as she sets the plate down. “Anything else I can get you?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Nothing for me,” Dean butts in before Claire can get a word in edgewise, “But Claire, here, would like your number.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Maggie goes bright red.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Dean,” Claire hisses, completely mortified. “What the fuck?” She turns to Maggie. “Forget what he said. He’s a moron who doesn't know what he’s talking about.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Maggie glances to Dean before settling back on Claire. “So… you don’t want it?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire splutters, “I - no - yes, but not if-” She takes a breath, clearly trying to compose herself. “Yes, I would like your number. But not because he said so.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You don’t have to decide now.” Dean fishes out his wallet and takes out a five. “It won’t affect your tip,” he says with a wink as he shoves the bill under the napkin dispenser.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Maggie bites her lip. “I’ll think about it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Once Maggie’s left, Claire leans over the table and punches Dean, hard, in the arm. “Oh my god, are you actually braindead?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey, watch the pie!” Dean yanks his plate closer, out of Claire’s line of fire.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What on earth possessed you to do that?” Claire demands.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean eyes his pie, planning his perfect plan of attack. “You needed a push in the right direction.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire draws up short. “I don’t need your help.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tough luck, because you got it anyway,” Dean says with a shrug as portions off his first bite. “You’re only here for the summer. You don’t have the time to pine from across the softball field for a whole season.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire frowns, saying warily, “I know Maggie isn’t Kaia.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean points his fork, dripping with pie filling at her face. “So you gotta try a new strategy.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Well, get yourself a capable wingman, for starters,” Dean says around his next bite of pie.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Who? <em>You?”</em> Claire asks incredulously.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Probably not,” Dean says, shuddering at the thought. He’d intervened with Maggie because was fucking funny as hell to see Claire get Cas-levels of awkward, but scoping out any more romantic prospects for Claire makes him feel sleazy. “I’m more of a pinch hitter.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You really didn’t pay attention to a single softball game, did you?” Dean says, almost impressed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire glares.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“They’re the guys called in last minute to fill in for a batter,” Dean says. He shovels the last bit of pie into his mouth, saying, “Did you keep in touch with Krissy?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire shakes her head. “They were all Kaia’s friends first, so…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“She got them in the divorce?” Dean says sympathetically.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire nods, her expression darkening.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know she’s back home for the summer too, taking care of her dad,” Dean says. “I bet she could use someone to hang with - if you ever get bored coding from our couch. Data entry for Charlie can’t be <em>that </em>exciting. Don’t tell her I said that.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire scowls. “You don’t need to set up playdates for me, Dean.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean shrugs. “Suit yourself. But none of Krissy’s other friends are back home - Josephine’s abroad, and the rest of ‘em are staying in their college towns.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’ll think about it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean nods. That’s probably as good as he’ll ever get with Claire - she’s not the type to gratefully accept help. She’s more likely to complain to his face while going behind his back and doing it anyway. Whatever it takes to get Claire out of their apartment and out of her funk.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>On their way out, Maggie leaves her number on their receipt.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire slams the Impala door shut and relaxes in the passenger seat. “Well that was fun,” she says sarcastically as Dean twists around to pull out of the parking lot without mowing down an unfortunate 1999 Toyota Camry. “Let’s do that again soon.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Really?” Dean asks. At her blank stare, he adds, “I never know with you. Did you really have a good time?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She fiddles with her seatbelt, biting her lip. “I won’t say this again, so cherish this moment: today was not the worst day I’ve ever had.” She huffs out a long breath. “It was almost fun, if you forget that shit in the diner.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean laughs. “I’ll take it, I guess.” He taps his fingers against the wheel as he waits for an opening in traffic to merge onto the highway. “I’m glad.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Me too,” Claire mutters, so low he can barely hear her.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean lets the noise of the road take over for a few minutes: the reassuring rattling of the toy soldiers in the back air vent; his baby’s engine purring like a dream; the low ambient hum of her tires carrying them across miles of pavement.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Once he’s calm as he’s gonna get, he says, “I have a question for you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire shoots him a look. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean shouldn’t have bothered asking. She really is incapable of being anything other than a teenager. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m thinking of asking Cas to marry me,” Dean says quickly. As Claire absorbs his words, his heart kicks up to double-time, hammering away in his chest. “Would you be okay with that?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Why are you asking <em>me?”</em> Her eyebrows are drawn together in that same furrow that Cas always has whenever a student stumps him with a question. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Because you’re his family.” He’s honestly surprised he has to say this part out loud.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Shouldn’t you be asking Grandmother instead?” Claire asks.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean shakes his head. “Cas doesn’t care about her opinion - or Jimmy’s.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire takes another long moment to think that over. “So… are you, what, asking my permission?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yep.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“To marry my <em>uncle.”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean shoots her a look. “I really don’t think the concept is that hard to understand.” Claire’s a smart kid. She’s probably drawing it out on purpose.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, but -” Claire breaks off, “It’s weird, though.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean rolls his eyes. “You literally called me a weird old man yesterday.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“But… not this weird.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s a yes or no question, Claire,” Dean reminds her testily.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Claire waves him off. “I mean, yes, obviously, but what the hell?” Her eyes narrow, accusatory. “Is this why you made me do this weird bonding thing with you today?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I -” Dean stutters. “I didn’t <em>make you-”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It is!” Claire crows. “Were you thinking about it for all 18 holes?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No,” Dean says shortly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t believe you.” Claire grins. “Were you <em>nervous?”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, I’m calling BS again. You gotta work on that poker face.” She sits back in her seat, smugness practically radiating off her in waves. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean has the strangest urge to hug her.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Just so you know,” she starts in an undertone, “I know it was you who convinced Uncle Cas to take me in. Back in high school.”</p>
  <p>“Cas wanted to be there for you,” Dean says quickly, “He just didn’t know how. Honestly,” he laughs, “he was scared he’d piss you off more, and then where would you go?”</p>
  <p>“Really?” Claire asks, surprised.</p>
  <p>Dean nods. “The guy is a great teacher, but he’s not great with kids if there isn’t a desk between them, you know? He's been working on it, though. Having you around taught him a lot.”</p>
  <p>Claire’s mouth twitches. “He’s such a doof.”</p>
  <p>He grins in return. “But he’s our doof, you know?”</p>
  <p>“Yeah,” Claire breathes. She gives herself a little shake and turns her head to stare deliberately straight ahead out the windshield. “Anyway, I’ve only really known Uncle Cas while you were together. It’d be more weird if you didn’t get married.”</p>
  <p>Dean doesn’t bother turning on the turn signal as he pulls over to the side of the road.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What the-?” Claire starts, twisting in her seat to look out the window. “Why’d you - <em>oof.”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean wraps his arms around her, squeezing tightly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Ugh,” she groans, “You smell.” But she hugs him back anyway.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Reblog the Tumblr post <a href="https://goldenraeofsun.tumblr.com/post/630064662943252480/the-best-day-with-you">here</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>